Of Memories and Violins
by legolasgreenleaf15
Summary: In which Sherlock remembers his childhood friend, Redbeard. I wrote it a while back, but didn't expect I'd actually publish it. K plus because I think it's kind of sad. One-shot.


**AN: I haven't written anything for the Sherlock fandom before, so this is new. A while ago, I decided to get out of my happy Lord of the Rings bubble and branch out a little, so this is the result of that mentality. With that being said, I've been sitting on this one for a while (I wrote this in July of 2015), but I was a little too nervous to post it back then because I didn't want to offend anyone with my probably OOC Sherlock and poor attempt at third person.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Sherlock.**

* * *

Staring out the window, he drew the bow over the strings a few times, relishing in the thrill of composing something new. The unmarked melodies flew around the room, echoing off of the walls, singing in his head. Pausing for a moment, Sherlock picked up his pencil and marked the new measures before lifting his violin again. His bow hovering over the strings, he thought for a moment, planning the next phrase carefully. In order for that phrase to be perfected, he played it out, testing how it sounded. With an angry screech, Sherlock quickly drew the bow from the violin, "No, not quite."

After working it in a variety of other ways, he wrenched the violin from where it rested on his shoulder and hissed, "No, no, no, NO!" Throwing the unfinished sheet music from the stand, he moved from his spot at the window to where other sheets were spread out on a desk. Rifling through the stack, he threw many of them to the ground, muttering out various reasons as to why they were inadequate. As he neared the bottom, his eyes caught one he refused to acknowledge, but seeing as how both John and Mrs. Hudson were out, he might dare to look at it, or maybe even play it, again. With a slight tremble in his hand, he grabbed the paper, gently pulling it from where it lay in the stack. Fingers hovering over the scrawl of notes in the penmanship of his youth, his eyes flickered to the title. A dull pain shot through him, but after regaining his poise, he shook it out of him.

He was not a child anymore.

Raising his violin again, Sherlock set the paper on his stand and began to play.

* * *

Scribbling frantically, the young boy smiled to himself. Turning away from his stand, his eyes searched for his longtime friend. A smile gracing his face, he set his pencil down on the stand, then rested his violin on the ground beside. "Redbeard! Listen, I made a new composition!" Sherlock ran to where his aging dog was lying, showing his best friend what he'd written. Redbeard turned to look at the paper, ears alert. "It's much better than my last one, mostly because I wrote it for you. Do you want to hear it?"

Turning from the paper, Redbeard gazed into Sherlock's eyes. His grin widening, the boy stood, walking back to his violin. "Mum said you weren't feeling very well, so I wanted to help you feel better." Picking up the instrument, he rested the wood on his shoulder. Playing the first few measures without error, he dared a look at his dog. Redbeard's tail was wagging. Encouraged, Sherlock turned back to his stand, eager to keep his friend happy. When he'd finished his composition, Sherlock turned to look at Redbeard again. His tail was still wagging. "I'll play it for you again if you'd like." As Redbeard's tail kept wagging, Sherlock raised his bow again, playing the song for his friend again and again.

It wasn't until the next morning when he realized that was the last time he'd play for his friend. As his mother explained how Redbeard was in lots of pain and how they were putting him down later that day, Sherlock could only look at his only friend and remember how his tail kept wagging.

* * *

As the last note resonated around the room, Sherlock could only stare at the paper. A dull pain erupted in his chest, but all Sherlock could do was stand and stare at the music before him. Redbeard.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he knew it was later in the evening, because John had just walked through the door to the flat. His shoes always scuffed the stairs the same way every day, yet as the sound of John's footsteps grew louder, Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the paper. He was frozen. He was frozen with an emotion he did not deal with daily.

"Sherlock?" John asked as he came through the door. "I don't know if you've heard but th-." His voice broke off, making it apparent that he'd seen Sherlock by the window. "Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"

Finding the ability to move again, Sherlock grabbed the paper off of the stack, setting it down with his previous compositions, and laid his instrument on top of them. "I'm fine, John. Never been better." His voice sounded strangled, but he hoped John wouldn't notice.

Of course, that was the first thing John noticed. "What? Are you sure? You sound a little-."

"I don't 'sound a little' anything John," Sherlock snapped, his voice stronger. "I'm not a child anymore." Sweeping his coat out from behind him, he strode to his room before John could say anything else. Shutting his bedroom door behind him, Sherlock could only lean against the doorframe. From the other side, he could hear John's voice, but it was muffled, as if he were underwater. Eventually, John was drowned out, and the dull pain overtook his senses.

Resisting the urge to slide down to the ground and sit in stunned silence, Sherlock remained upright. He was clearly overreacting, because he knew he had gotten over Redbeard.

He was not a child anymore.


End file.
